Vampire's Lament
by chicadoodle
Summary: My name is Harry Potter, and I'd like to share with you the story of my life. Or my death, as the case may be. Being Re-written.
1. Chapter One

This story is my baby. I keep coming back to it, keep rewriting it … but hopefully this will be it's last incarnation. It is based largely off the Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice – really, it's a crossover between that and, of course, Harry Potter. Hope you enjoy!

Obviously, there are some major differences here from the books, though I have attempted to remain true to the vampires and vampire communities of The Vampire Chronicles. However, hopefully I will be forgiven for any inconsistencies, as I bring the characters of both genre's into a time neither author has dabbled in.

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We met met on the bridge, arriving nearly simultaneously, though I knew he had been waiting for quite some time, just out of sight. I caught it from the edges of his mind, before the old barriers slammed up, cutting me off as they always did. I never tried to delve deeper – let him keep his secrets, his thoughts private, his sacred memories his own.

We all had our little quirks, and for him it was the memories of his Life – the Life Before. One could almost call it a religion, the way he clung to those memories when all else failed him.

No so I. If anything, I longed to forget, and for decades at a time I had been granted that request in the past. But always he drew me back to myself, as I drew him out of his memories.

We always met on this bridge. I wasn't sure why; it held no signifigance in our past together, either mortal or immortal. But perhaps that was reason enough; it was neutral ground, safety.

He carried with him a book – thick, leather bound, the kind you didn't see so often these days. You didn't see much of any sort of books, these days. All computers, more and more advanced at the days aged on.

Not many came down to the lower levels of the city now, preferring their world in the sky – narrow walkways of super re-enforced glass, buildings that rose miles into the sky. No, it was only the most desperate who journeyed down to the surface of the planet, now. And this was, perhaps, more than enough of a reason for us to meet here, where the chance of a human coming upon us was so very slim.

I was leaning against the side of the bridge, staring down into the water as he came to stand at my side – neither of us bothering to speak for several minutes, not even to acknowledge the other's presence.

"I went to see her." There was no point in asking who he spoke of – we both knew. Ah, my dear, sweet Avangelista. She lay, even now, in her cave in the ice. She had gone there herself, to sleep away the centuries. We had tried waking her, once, only to find her as still and cold as the ice which now encased her, after so long in the frozen wastes of the world.

"And what did she have to say?" There was amusement in my voice, and I could feel the glare sent my way, even if I did not glance at my companion.

"That's not funny." I could almost hear the name he wanted to add to the end of it – the name he had called so often in anger and contempt when we were human children, so sure we were the greatest enemy of the other.

Now, we were all the other had.

I could still feel his glare as he spoke again, though there was a note of triumph to his voice, and I could almost see the familiar sneer twisting his lips in my mind's eye. "Actually, she wanted to know what the hell you were thinking."

I turned my head too fast for a human, so fast it would appear I had not moved at all – it was a useful trick when confronted with Hunters, but nothing more than that. There was no magic behind it; that had left me long ago.

"She is staying at a hotel in the Upper City. Will you come with me to see her?" He had not bothered to cut his hair that morning, instead pulling it back into a tight ponytail atop his head. He spoke softly now, so unlike the way he had raised his voice in anger as a child, as a teenager. Those eyes were the same as ever, however – cold, calculating, watching my every move and making his own assumptions. He had gotten better at that, over the years; better at living among muggles. But certain things stayed with you, and his upbringing was one of those things.

_A Malfoy is always aware, always watching. Remember that – it might just save your life one of these days._

When had he told me that? Years ago; always it was years. I measured time not in minutes, not in hours, nor even in days. It came in years now, decades.

"She's worried about you." His words brought me back to the present, and I gave a short laugh as I turned to stare out at the water – water poisoned beyond repair. They brought it up in great tubs now, to be cleaned and processed and made drinkable for the humans who had been responsible for it's pollution in the first place.

They didn't like to think about that, though, did they? Didn't like to think of the past too much. Made them feel too guilty, I suppose.

"She has nothing to worry about. And neither do you." I could almost see the disbelieving look on his face as I said this, a small smile touching my lips. Of course he worried – it seemed to be the only thing we spoke of, his worries.

_You stay too close to them – far too close. They'll only die in the end, they always do._.

Oh, if only knew how close I had come to Turning my various human companions over the years. I held them mostly in Thrall, a simple enough trick with the Dark Gift, though over the years my control had strengthened to the point where it was only a suggestion within their minds, this love for me; they found their own reasons to rationalize it within their own minds.

But we knew, the both of us – all three of us – the price of making another; of bringing another into the immortal life. Knew that not all could take to this life – not all could survive the transition.

"So you won't come to see her."

There was a history there – a history between the three of us I didn't care to delve to deeply into. Didn't care to _remember_. But he would never let me forget.

Not for long, anyway.

Once, I would have laughed at the question – more as a defensive reflex than anything else. Such habits had long since left me, however. Instead I continued staring out at the water, into those murky depths. Even now, the great machines were pumping water up, into the great casks, as tall as ten men and as wide as five, that resided on the lower tiers of the city – not so far down as we on the surface but far enough that only the poorer dregs of society were forced to live among the great machines, to work among them.

"Then she was right." He held the book toward me now, and I accepted it with a raised eyebrow. It was an old game we had played often, before he slumber in the ice, back when we had been able to talk so easily – and far more often than these yearly meetings between him and I.

One of them would gift me a book – sometimes like this, sometimes with a hard cover, sometimes a soft. At times they were lined, other times not.

And they knew I always tossed them – in a dumpster, left in a coffee shop, on a park bench. It didn't matter where they were left, who retrieved them. They knew I didn't use them; didn't write my thoughts, my memories as they longed for me to.

"Back to this then, are we?" I asked with a slight smile, turning the book over in my hands.

When I glanced up again, he was gone, in the way he always left – without a sound, without warning.

Why didn't I simply toss it into the river? I can't say, but as I walked back to one of the lifts that would bring me to the Lower City, I still held the book clutched in my hands, turning it over every once in a while, even as I stared down at the ground without really seeing it.

The lifts were made of reinforced glass, allowing one to watch the ground quickly retreating – a nightmare to those who were born with a fear of heights, but those were few in this age of cities in the sky, this _space age_.

I could have left the book in the lift, could have left it upon one of the benches in the man-made park I passed. I could have tossed it in one of the large wire trash cans that lined that same park.

Instead I brought it with me into the small café I frequented quite often lately, these past few years. I found a pen nestled in the wire binding – just another way of Avangelista giving me no excuse not to use it, not to write in it. I still couldn't understand her obsession with making me write down the story of my life – of my undeath. Of my turning.

But the book itself lured me, in the way only an antique can. Paper had not completely phased out, not entirely. It was still used here and there, in the classrooms of the Lower City especially. And the rich would always have their journals, filled with the story of their rather mundane lives.

But books like these – well-made, thick, almost parchment-like paper and a sturdy cover – books like these were harder and harder to come by. Where she had found it, I didn't know. Even as I write in it now, I still don't know.

The café is quiet around me – the morning rush has come and gone, the afternoon rush not yet come. The perfect time to begin.

And so I shall.


	2. Chapter Two

I was born in the village of Godric's Hollow, to James and Lily Potter. By my first birthday they had fallen to a madman who stylized himself 'Lord Voldemort' - a maniac quite similar to Hitler, and perhaps he had been heavily influenced by that man, for he would have been alive during the man's rise to power. But I digress.

A prophesy had been called, and it was because of this that Riddle - Voldemort - had attacked. They died because of me, because of a power that I would one day wield - the only power that could possibly stop his rise to power.

Flash forward ten years and you would have found me living with the sister of my mother, under conditions that would have caused many questions - and legal problems - had they been brought to the attention of the proper authorities. But they never would be, for who would tell them? Certainly not I, so accustomed to the status quo.

Flash forward again to my eleventh birthday, and my acceptance in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. For several years I was a rather unconventional curriculum which included annual threats on my life, through no fault of my own or those around me. They tried their best to protect me, and I cannot fault them for that.

But there best was rarely enough.

Events happened to me like clockwork, in those days; always on my birthday, on halloween - the anniversary of my parents' death - I would find one catasrophe or another befalling myself and those I loved. At the time I came to believe more and more that it was their association with me that put them in such danger.

Then came my third year, and the entire debacle with the Tri-Wizard tournament. My name placed there by another, under the name of a school that did not exist, I was forced to participate in an event closed to all but the eldest students. And I, not even half way through my schooling, barely even coming in to puberty.

Another student died that night. And, perhaps ... perhaps I could have come to terms with that. He begged me to return his body to his parents, and I had every intention of doing so.

If only I had lived long enough to keep that promise.

It had been a cup that had deposited us in that cursed graveyard in the first place, and it was as I reached for that cup - a golden chalice that should have been the prize of the winner - that I felt the sharp pain in my neck, and then ... nothing.

The pain faded, replaced by a shock of pleasure before I lost all consciousness. That was to be my first sexual experience ... and what an experience it was.

When I finally awoke, it was to the darkness of a bed, heavy curtains pulled closed. I lay still for several seconds, trying to get my bearings. I had not yet been turned, not yet, and if I had known what was to come, perhaps I would have been a bit more frantic. As it was, I simply lay there for several seconds.

Human still, it took my eyes some time to adjust to the dim lighting, and even then, not much could be seen. I felt my way, fingers dancing along the quilt until the encountered the headboard of the bed. Bare feet dropped down to the floot, a shiver racing up my spine at the cold wooden floors. Cold still affected me, then.

"You should go back to sleep." The tired voice jolted me in to movement, sending me shotting back onto the bed. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recognized the voice, but being practically blind was not beneficial to any kind of trust.

The shuffling of footsteps made me aware of movement, and I my eyes darted frantically around, trying to find the source ... but it was just too dark.

"Harry ..." Fingers brushed along my arm, the bed dipping beneath the weight of another person, and once again I tried to draw away ... only to be stopped by a firm grip on my arm. "Harry, stop it."

A softly whispered _Lumos_ later, and I was staring into the familiar features of Charlie Weasley. His hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, blue eyes serious as he stared down at me. "You need to _sleep_. Not to mention I'd like to get some, too." The last was said with some humor, and I could already feel myself relaxing.

"Where ..." I stared to say, only to be silenced as Charlie shook his head.

"In the morning, Harry."

A recap; Charles Weasley, second oldest of the Weasley children. Ronald Weasley, the youngest of the boys and second-youngest of them all - his younger sister Ginny being the youngest - had been my childhood friend since I first began attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy. Though I had only met Charlie a handful of times, I had no reason to distrust him.

So I complied. Why? Because I had no reason not to believe I was safe. Perhaps I thought we were at Grimauld Place, the home of my Godfather, the headquarters of the Order of the Pheonix, an underground resistance group against Lord Voldemort. Remember him? Maniac who tried to kill me as a kid? Yeah, they fought him.

And Charlie had always been trustworthy, besides. So I settled myself back into the bed, aware of Charlie retreating, of a door opening and closing softly behind him.

Besides, I was tired.

When next I awoke, I was alone and sunlight was only now beginning to stream through the now opened curtains of the room. Charlie was nowhere to be seen, and as I eased myself out of the bed, I took stock of the room around me.

Definately not Grimmauld Place.

Allow me to explain. Grimmauld Place - the home of my Godfather, Headquarters of the Order? It was a gloomy place, filled with dust and mold, barely livable, even with the ministrations of the Weasley matriarch. But this room? It was meticulously clean, spacious. I had grown accustomed to sharing a room with Ron over the years, yet he was nowhere to be seen. And now, in the light of day, the previous evening's activities _did_ seem strange. Since when did Charlie Weasley berate me for my night time wanderings? Though I knew him, had even had the occassional conversation with the older man, he was certainly not the type of do his mother's work for her. Where had Ron been?

For the first time, the oddities of that night became blaringly clear, and it was with more than a bit of trepidition than I eased the bedroom door open.

Of course, my mind was already coming up with excuses. Perhaps Dumbledore had saved me, perhaps he had known something was wrong and had followed where the Cup had deposited me. Perhaps ... The excuses continued, until I felt safe in my own explanations. After all, everything would be explained to me eventually.

Dumbledore always had a way of telling me just enough to allay my fears, while holding back just enough to make me dig all the harder. I realise now that this was intentional. He did it to protect me, in his own way. He knew what was coming, what I would have to face. Perhaps the details were off, but the rather unconventional 'training' I recieved from those same dangerous situations served me well ... later.

The hall that awaited me beyond the bedroom door was dark, what little light there was coming from electric lights on the wall, set at even intervals. And, of course, the sunlight streaming from my door.

Isn't it odd, that the first thing that caught my attention were those electric lights? I didn't find them odd when living with my relatives, for they lived their lives surrounded by the marvels of modern science. But I had seen Charlie Weasley the night before, and so my mind instantly associated him with a place of magic, of candles and darkened corners and mystery. Certainly not anything _modern_.

So my attention was caught, just long enough for the voice that spoke to my left to startle me. "Awake, I see."

Before I knew what was happening the man was beside me, long fingers sifting through my hair, and I caught my first glimpse of Lestat de Lioncourt. His blond hair fell in gently curling waves down to his shoulders, blue eyes watching me with a slight smile curling his lips. He was a handsome man - make no mistake about it. But there was an elegance to him that was rare in the world - I was to learn later this was the elegance of a French aristocrat.

But at the moment, I cared little for elegance or finery, or even manners. I jerked away from the touch of his fingers, but that onlyc aused his smile to grow, a flash of fang making me recoil even more.

He enjoyed that, I could tell - enjoyed making me squirm. Even then I could see it, before I came to know the man who would take everything from me - and give me a new world.

Do I hate him for it? Perhaps. But I cannot help but love him, all in the same breath.


End file.
